A family tour of Britain: part seven - Northumberland

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Checking into our lodge in the Kielder Forest, after a day at Hadrian’s Wall, the Geordie reception-man recommends I buy a bottle of Avon Skin So Soft, a face cream used by the British Army, which trains here.

The situation’s finally calming when something else happens. I’m feeding Charlie when I hear buzzing coming from what I think is the failing battery in the clock on the living room wall. But how silly of me to assume it could be something as innocent as an AAA battery? It’s a bat, of course. A live bat trapped in our lodge. It’s the lowest point of the entire trip so far, as the bat I’ve disturbed begins whipping around the living room at great erratic speed. It doesn’t bump into anything because, of course, it has echo location, but that doesn’t stop the children crying. Besides, it’s a hard concept to explain, echo location.

‘Phoebe, stop crying! It’s OK. They won’t fly into you because bats send out sonar bleeps through their larynx that bounce off objects, sending differing rebound signal frequencies back to the bat’s ears giving them a clear picture of what’s in front of them.’

It also doesn’t help that I’m involuntarily ducking every few seconds myself as I’m saying this.

‘Ben, do something!’

‘What?’

Tears spring from Charlie’s eyes. Phoebe’s in my arms, whimpering.

“We’ve been here five minutes!’ I shout. ‘Five minutes! And we’re already at crisis point. This is ridiculous. Ridiculous! Open the door, Dinah. It’ll probably just fly out.’

‘You open it.’

‘I’m holding Phoebe.’

‘Well, I’ve got Charlie.’

‘Phoebe…’

‘Don’t ask her!’

‘I wasn’t going to. I was going say, "go to Mummy", actually.’

Phoebe runs to Dinah.

‘Ben, for God’s sake!’

‘OK, OK.’

And it returns. The reason I really hate bats. Growing up in a windmill, bats would fly around the sails at night. Once, aged 11, in the middle of the night, sitting on the toilet I’d heard a high-pitched squeaking noise.

Unable to determine it’s source, I’d stood up and, peering into the bowl, inches from where my bum had just been, from where my face was now, was the most disgusting thing I’d ever seen - a bat covered in my excrement flailing about in the toilet water. It had flown in through the open window.

‘Ahhhh!’ I shout, dashing for the door. The bat arcs towards me but at the last moment banks away. It hangs from the curtain before beginning another looping trajectory. I duck, slide open the door and dart back behind the sofa. The bat drops to the ground. Its wings resemble a hideous crumpled parachute but I find the strength to run at it again screaming: ‘Ahhhh!’

The bat takes off and flies through the door. I slam it shut and face my family expecting – what? Cheers? Congratulations? I’ve saved us, slain personal demons in the process. Dinah rises and shepherding the kids toward the bathroom, says, ‘God, you’re a coward!’